The Firehouse Four
by deepfathom
Summary: An updated collection of a few of my early Ghostbusters short stories, and possibly some new ones as well. Varying content, labeled and rated individually.
1. Toastbusters

_**Toastbusters**_

 _ **Rated K+**_

* * *

Janine paused, leaning back into the desk chair to nibble nervously on a fingernail.

The boys had gone out on an early call almost two hours ago. Two hours too long. Knowing them, this could indicate anything from an impromptu coffee break to a serious situation. Was she worrying over nothing? They _had_ saved the world on several different occasions, coming out each time relatively unscathed. How difficult could it be to clean up a gang of rowdy class two kitchen poltergeists?

The phone rang. Janine jumped to snatch it.

"Ghostbusters!" she gasped, then deflated when she realized it wasn't the guys checking in. Just another customer. She found a piece of paper and jotted down the information. "Right, I'll send'em over later today."

 _If they make it back, that is._

She plunked the receiver back down onto its base.

"They're _fine_ ," she said out loud, trying to counter her mounting fear.

She was considering suiting up and going after them (something she did on occasion when they got in a little too far over their heads) when the garage doors at the front of the Firehouse opened and Ecto-1 pulled in.

Janine leaped to her feet as they emerged from the vehicle, about to dash over and wrap her arms around each of them in turn, but stopped in her tracks. All four were covered from head to toe in a sticky purple goo.

"What _happened_?!"

Ray wiped a bit of the slime from his forehead with a finger, then stuck it in his mouth, grinning happily.

"Delicious!"

Janine nearly dry-heaved. "Oh, Ray, that's _disgusting_! Don't eat that, you don't know where it's been!"

"Don't worry, it's sanitary," said Egon. "Well, mostly. It was in a jar."

"A jar?" Janine raised an eyebrow.

"Until we blew it up, yes."

"It's grape jelly," Peter clarified, sounding much more disgruntled than usual. "And it's gonna take some serious scrubbing to get it out of Ecto's upholstery. I nominate Ray."

Janine choked back a snort of laughter. "Grape jelly? All right, guys, what _really_ happened?"

Naturally, Ray was first to answer. "It. Was. _Incredible_!"

Winston huffed. "Speak for yourself, man."

"You shoulda _seen_ it! The little creeps got into _everything_! I'm talkin' cereal all over the place—"

"Pots and pans flying around," put in Winston. "That _hurt_."

"Egg yolk splattered on the walls," Egon added.

"Did you get a sample?" snarked Peter.

"Yes."

"Oh, goody."

"And let's not forget that Ray was nearly _eaten_ by an oven," Winston finished.

"Yeah," Ray sighed, "that probably could've been handled better—ahem, _Peter_ —"

"What?! Okay, you just hold it right there, mister. I'm not the one that—"

"—but it was _nothing_ compared to the toaster. Oh, wow, that toaster was somethin' else, amiright?"

Janine blinked. "Do…do I even _want_ to know?"

"No," chorused the other three.

"All I'm gonna say is I got crumbs in places crumbs shouldn't be," muttered Winston.

"Um…ew?"

"Hey, fellas," Ray called cheerfully, heading for the stairs, "breakfast's on me today! What'll it be?"

" _Anything_ ," Peter growled as they all followed, "but toast."


	2. It Came From Behind The Mariachi Band

_**It Came From Behind The Mariachi Band**_

 _ **Rated K+**_

* * *

"Ray," Peter asked as he and the other Ghostbusters stopped outside a fancy penthouse door, "are you _sure_ this is the right place?"

Black and orange streamers, a generous dusting of cobwebs, and a grinning poster board Jack-O-Lantern graced the entrance, while muffled strains of lively music and laughter drifted through it into the hallway.

"Positive," Ray answered. "Why?"

"I don't know, maybe the shocking lack of screaming?"

"Well, there's only one way to find out," Winston sighed, extending a hand to rap on the door. Almost immediately, a young man dressed as a chef opened up, carrying with him a powerful aroma of pumpkin spice.

"Hey, awesome costumes, guys! You look like the real thing with all the lights and the wires and stuff."

"These aren't cost—" Ray started.

"C'mon in!" The man grabbed him by the shirtfront and yanked him over the threshold. "Party's just getting started."

The others hesitantly trickled in after them and were immediately engulfed by a host of costumed guests, tables of delicious-looking food, and music from a live mariachi band wearing huge sombreros.

Egon tapped the chef on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sir, but I'm afraid there's been some kind of mistake. We're here because we received a call about a potential paranormal disturbance."

"A para-what-huh?"

Egon huffed. "Ghosts."

"Ghosts? Heh, good one." The chef winked and motioned to the group of giggling women draped in white sheets lingering by the punch bowl. "Take your pick."

"No, no, real ghosts." Before Winston could clarify any further, the chef waved and called to someone across the room and trotted off to join the crowd. "Uh…okay, now what?"

"Are you kidding?" Peter blurted. "This place is great!"

Ray raised an eyebrow. "Paranormal disturbances can happen anywhere, I guess."

"They sure can, Stantz my boy," Peter said, clapping him on the shoulder. "They sure can. So, we're here, might as well investigate, huh?" Now sporting a sly grin, he sidled indiscreetly in the direction of the punch bowl. "You guys take that half of the room and I'll go check on things over here by the drinks. I think I noticed something interesting."

"Aaaand there he goes," mumbled Winston. "So much for the job."

"There's a ninety-eight point seven percent chance that we're here in error," said Egon, plucking the PKE meter from his belt and holding it up, "but we should sweep for psychokinetic activity just in case."

"Yeah, good idea. But, if the place actually _is_ haunted, why's the party still going on?"

"Maybe they haven't noticed," said Ray.

"The guests could very well be under the control of the ghost if it's powerful enough," replied Egon. "It might even be trying to fool us into thinking nothing is out of the ordinary. Be on your guard."

"Right…" Ray trailed off, inching closer to the refreshment table. "Wow, this smells amazing! Uh, maybe I'll just grab a quick snack."

"Eh, might as well," Winston said with a shrug, hurrying after him.

Egon took no notice of their departure, already completely occupied with the meter. He ran it up and down in front of a couple confused zombies, poked a pirate in the chest to make sure he was solid, and ended his investigation of the dance floor by dissecting a piece of pumpkin pie—strictly for scientific purposes, of course.

After turning up unsatisfying results, he moved on to the platform where the mariachi band was performing. The musicians threw him baffled looks as he ran the meter around each of them, lifted their giant sombreros one by one to peer inside, then placed them back on their heads.

The trumpet player caught Egon's shoulder between the chorus and verse three.

"What're you doing?"

"I'm searching for spectral activity and the residual ectoplasmic evidence of spiritual manifestations passing through the physical plane. You all check out clean."

"Look, amigo, I shower before _every_ gig!" Snapped the trumpet player.

"I...wasn't referring to your personal hygiene habits-"

"You know what? Just get off the stage, willya? We're about to finish."

"Oh. Right." Egon stepped down. "Sorry."

"Hey, man," Winston appeared beside him, holding a plate of frosted sugar cookies, "I don't think we've got any ghosts—"

At that second, all the lights went out, plunging the room into a blackout. Several people screamed. The band cut out abruptly. A glass shattered on the floor.

"Look!" shouted a guest.

Across the room behind the platform, a glowing, greenish mass slowly began to rise out of a billowing mist.

"What is _that_?" Winston asked through a mouthful of cookie.

"It looks like a…" Egon faltered, it was just so absurd, "like a—"

"CAKE!" Came Ray's gleeful shout from somewhere in the dark. "It's a cake! Phantom craftwork at twelve o'clock! Fire!"

A brilliant band of light burst from the blackness and collided with the cake, and the resulting spectacular explosion sent green frosting and white, fluffy chunks spraying in every direction. The proton stream fizzled out into dead silence, as did the rest of the room.

"Oh, um...never mind. False alarm. As you were, everyone, heh."

Someone found a light switch.

"All right," Peter emerged and snagged Ray by an ear on his way over to the other two, "somebody wanna fill me in on what _that_ was all about?"

"Ow! Peter, let go!"

"One of the charming little spirits over there spilled her apple cider all over—"

"What've you done?" It was the chef. He rushed out from behind the platform in a rage, clutching his hair in both fists. "Y-you've ruined my big surprise! I planned this _months_ ago! That cake was a special order and I had this costume _specifically_ tailored to coordinate with it!

"Wow, really?" Peter sounded genuinely impressed.

"I've spent _weeks_ making the arrangements for the effects and you just...j-just _obliterated_ the whole thing in less than two seconds! With a _laser_!"

"Proton stream," Egon corrected.

"Whatever!"

"S-sorry," Ray spluttered, rubbing his ear, "we—I thought it was a ghost—"

"A ghost?!" the chef fumed. "Who do you freaks think you are, the _real_ Ghostbusters?"

Peter held up a finger. "Huh, funny story—ow!"

The chef shoved him roughly toward the front door, then began herding them all through the crowd like cattle.

"Out! Get _out_!"

"Wait," pleaded Ray, "we can explain—aagh!"

The door slammed, and all four suddenly found themselves in a heap back out in the hallway.

"Hey!" Peter sat up and shook a fist at the door. "Nobody throws Peter Venkman out of a party! Peter Venkman _is_ the party, and he was just about to get a phone number!"

"I'm now one hundred percent certain we're at the wrong address," Egon stated, straightening his glasses.

"Oh, thank you. That _really_ helps."

"Nice one, man," Winston muttered as he rolled off the pile onto the floor. "Very nice. Maybe you should've told him you're a god."

"Shut up," Ray spat.

Peter swiveled to face him. "Lemme see that slip."

Ray produced a folded piece of paper from a front pocket, which was immediately snatched from his hand.

"Ha! This says number 1477, not 1471!"

Ray folded his arms, glowering. "Janine's 7's and 1's sometimes look the same, okay?"

"Um, hello, sorry to interrupt…" a voice cut in behind them. It belonged to a tall man in a black tuxedo and top hat carrying a large suitcase labeled "Magic". "Is this the party?"

After a moment, they nodded in unison.

"Thanks," the man moved toward the door. "I'm up after the band."

"Watch it," warned Winston. "Tough crowd tonight. But the cookies are great."


End file.
